


"i need your help."

by novoaa1



Series: natasha tries not to do "feelings" (the operative word here being 'tries') [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Hurt Natasha Romanov, Hurt/Comfort, Meh, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha is smooth as FUCK, Oral Sex, POV Wanda Maximoff, Resolved Sexual Tension, Wanda Maximoff Feels, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, i'll probably come back and edit this later, showering together, they're gay, this is gay, wanda is a huge gay mess, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-13 12:17:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18468793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Natasha gets hurt on a mission.. Bad.But Clint's away, so she finds herself stumbling into Wanda's room instead. (It's either that or go to medical, and the Black Widow does not go tomedical.)She lets Natasha in, of course... aaaand Wanda's crushing. Hard.





	1. "a bit of a scrape"

**Author's Note:**

> One-shot that I'm thinking about possibly extending into a two-shot?
> 
> Idk... let me know what you think :)

It was something around midnight at Avengers Tower—12:22, the clock read when Wanda turned her head to check—and by all means, she was more than ready to tuck herself in bed and get some much-needed rest.

 

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or just plain bothered when that plan got swiftly railroaded (sleeping meant dreams, and dreams meant Pietro, and God, she loves— _loved_ , she reminds herself bitterly—him so much her heart aches, but seeing him there when she knew she couldn’t touch him any more just made her _hurt_ ), straining her ears to pick up light footsteps approaching her room on the 7th floor. 

 

She knew it wasn't Steve or Sam; maybe it was Clint? Or Natasha? She fought the swell of hope that suddenly built in her chest when her mind whispered that maybe it was Natasha—Natasha, who’d been gone on a mission for the past month; Natasha, who Wanda ached for with every fibre of her being; Natasha, who was so famously cold and unreadable on the exterior but always manages to make Wanda smile and laugh and forget about every reason why she shouldn’t be doing either of those things in the first place… Natasha, the woman Wanda _knew_ she was falling for, and the woman Wanda _knew_ wouldn’t ever want her back.

 

They’d grown closer after Sokovia—a complete surprise to Wanda; that’s for sure. To be fair, the redheaded assassin had given her something of the cold shoulder for the first few weeks directly following the battle against Ultron, which Wanda had absolutely accepted as the direct consequence of her rather flagrant invasion of privacy at the shipyard (—honestly, she was still rather surprised that Natasha hadn’t just killed her out of spite, because God knows she could've done it at any given moment without batting an eyelid). 

 

But, sooner than Wanda could have ever imagined, Natasha was suddenly _there_. 

 

It felt something like a prayer from on high: Natasha teaching Wanda to cook, joining her for meals in the common areas, ensuring she wasn’t feeling left out on ‘family nights’ with the rest of the Avengers. At one point, they picked up the practice of conversing with one another in Czech, the only common language they’d found between them after trying (and failing) to understand one another when speaking in their respective mother tongues. 

 

And, it didn’t stop there: Natasha showed up for the dark stuff, too. 

 

She was there for the panic attacks and completely unsolicited breakdowns that left Wanda devastated by unforgiving memory, gasping for air; she was there to shove a protein bar into Wanda’s hands along with a water bottle at what probably appeared to be the most random of times, but weren’t, because Wanda was terrible at remembering to eat on her own and often went days without realizing she’d been starving herself (though somehow Natasha always knew); she was there for the long and sleepless nights Wanda spent listlessly watching Disney movies in the common areas because she couldn’t sleep, because watching American cartoon princesses singing their songs and dancing to ridiculous rhythms seemed to make the agonizing hole in her chest where Pietro had existed feel just a little bit softer around the edges. 

 

“Hey.” A rough voice snapped her from her thoughts. 

 

Wanda whirled around, still seated contemplatively on the edge of her bed. 

 

_Oh my God, it_ is _Natasha_.

 

Her excitement at the late-night visit from easily her favorite person in Avengers Tower was quickly overshadowed, though, as she took in the assassin leaning against her doorframe, looking significantly worse for wear (at least, as far as she could tell in the dim lighting). Soot covered her from head to toe (she was still in her combat suit), causing the shoulder-length waves of messy hair to look more auburn than red. The suit was ripped in a couple places—high on her left thigh, and low on her opposite hip, deep crimson gashes peering through the tears in the fabric. Her thigh holsters were uncharacteristically empty, blood trailing from a cut above her eyebrow to reach the edge of her jaw… and her eyes—green as ever, but they looked empty somehow, like Natasha wasn’t fully there.

 

Regardless, the redhead’s lips quirked as she managed her trademark smirk, a single brow raised. “Come here often?” she asked with a teasing lilt. 

 

Finally having returned to her senses, Wanda rolled her eyes as she stood, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious dressed only in her tight red tank top and black sleep shorts. “Cute,” she said dryly, then tilted her head. “Are you okay?” 

 

Natasha’s self-assured smirk widened even as Wanda could see more blood beginning to seep from the wound on her thigh. “Peachy.” 

 

“And, um,” Wanda stumbled over her words, a light blush tainting her cheeks, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” 

 

“A pleasure, huh?” The assassin’s eyes glinted almost dangerously, causing a sort of heat to settle itself lower and lower in Wanda’s abdomen even as her mind practically screamed at hers to _Focus, goddammit_. 

 

“I was being polite.”

 

“Yeah, yeah…” Natasha waved dismissively with a dirt-smudged hand, her expression slipping subtly into something more serious. "I need your help.”

 

Wanda lifted a brow. “You do know I am not a trained assassin or ex-KGB, yes?” 

 

“I actually happen to believe that that’s one of your better qualities.”

 

Wanda sighed. “Don’t."

 

“Don’t what?” 

 

“Don’t do that thing where you call yourself a fundamentally bad person because of things you could not control in your past.”

 

It was silent for a moment, Natasha’s gaze boring into Wanda’s, a sort of gentle contemplation sparkling in those unforgettable green eyes. 

 

“Like I said, I need your help.”

 

Wanda didn’t know whether to count it as a win or a loss that Natasha hadn’t acknowledged her comment—on the one hand, the Russian woman hadn’t argued; on the other, it was quite possible that she’d just ignored it entirely.

 

“Okay… "

 

“I have a bit of a scrape on my back that needs stitching up, but I can’t reach it, and Clint’s not here, so I need you to do it,” she said matter-of-factly, her eyes never straying from Wanda’s.

 

Her blunt delivery, though it initially gave Wanda the urge to bristle with annoyance, she hypothesized, was probably almost entirely due to Natasha not quite knowing how to go about asking for help when she needed it. She knew it was probably born out of never being trained to believe that doing so wasn’t a show of weakness, but rather, a simple part of living. 

 

Her heart ached for Natasha, because she knew how thoroughly she downplayed the horrors of her past—Wanda had gone into her mind to glimpse the briefest of snapshots in a younger Natasha's trauma-ridden mind, and although she hadn’t known Natasha then (not like now), the things she witnessed were fucking _scary_. 

 

She’d never turn her away when she asked for help. _Never_.

 

“Of course,” Wanda acquiesced softly, approaching Natasha with slow and deliberate steps. “Shower first?” 

 

Natasha nodded numbly in response, the emptiness in her eyes beginning to return at an almost alarming pace. 

 

When she still didn’t move, Wanda furrowed her brow, trying to come up with a plan. 

 

“Natasha?” she prodded gently, reaching out a cautious hand. “I am going to touch you now; is that okay?” 

 

Another nod. 

 

Wanda carefully slid a single arm around the assassin’s waist (she was a couple inches taller than Natasha, she’d discovered over the last couple of months), the bare skin of her arm unwittingly coming into contact with what Wanda assumed to be the “scrape" on her lower back Natasha had mentioned earlier, causing a slight whimper of pain to escape soot-streaked lips as Wanda hastily mumbled an apology into her neck.

 

_‘Scrape,’_ Wanda thought sardonically to herself. _Yeah, right_. 

 

Eventually, though, she found a position that worked for the both of them (albeit after much maneuvering), a battle-worn Natasha allowing herself to lean almost imperceptibly into Wanda’s embrace. 

 

“Okay, we’re going to walk to the bathroom now,” she whispered, guilt stabbing at her insides as Natasha bit her lip hard, clearly in pain with every step spanning the moderately-sized bedroom.

 

Wanda winced, temporarily blinded when she flicked on the light of the bathroom, even as Natasha’s expression remained unsettlingly blank; then, taking considerable care not to irritate the woman’s various injuries any further, Wanda gingerly guided her to sit upon the toilet cover, anxiety curling in her stomach at Natasha’s inattentive stare. 

 

After reassuring a rather listless Natasha that she would be right back, she went through her drawers in search of a clean change of clothes and, seeing only her fluffy white towel (but refusing to leave Natasha alone to go look for new one), promptly snatched it off the hook and brought it back with her. 

 

She saw that Natasha hadn’t moved when she re-entered the bathroom, clothes and towel clutched tightly in hand. Placing the stack of clothes neatly on the granite countertop, she spread the towel across the floor just outside the shower door—then, satisfied with her set-up, returned to approach a still-sitting Natasha, crouching herself low on the tile to get her attention. 

 

“Do you need help? Or do you think you can do it on your own?” she asked, praying to a god she didn’t believe in that Natasha would just damn her pride and tell her if she needed Wanda to be there even though she knew it’d be a hard admission for the older woman to stomach—this was as shaken as Wanda had ever seen her, and she didn’t know how to guess what the frustratingly inscrutable Black Widow needed from her… but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to be there all the same, especially if she could _help_.

 

Uncertainty flickered in Natasha’s green eyes, though it was gone in less than a second—but even the fact that the emotion had been visible at all told Wanda just how weary and battered she really was, because Natasha had always been completely unreadable to her even after they’d grown closer… This meant that it was _bad_. 

 

“I don’t know,” Natasha mumbled out eventually, the words strained—Wanda knows it must’ve taken a serious and concerted effort on her part to admit that. 

 

“Okay,” she replied in what she hoped to be a comforting tone. “I’m going to be here the whole time. Can you stand up for me?” 

 

Natasha nodded sluggishly in response, and Wanda moved to help her, placing one hand flat between her shoulder blades, the other holding her upper arm as she slowly got up on her feet.

 

“We are going to take your field suit off, okay? Is it alright if I touch you?” 

 

“Yeah,” she said in an almost-whisper. 

 

Wanda let out a slow sigh of relief. Her hands were shaking slightly as she moved to unzip the front of Natasha’s sinfully tight leather getup, scolding herself as various _completely_ inappropriate thoughts began to bombard her with every inch of milky white skin that was revealed, because Wow, this was _really_ not the time to be thinking about other completely _not_ platonic situations in which Wanda imagined herself undressing the assassin just like this and—

 

_Get it together, Maximoff_.

 

The zipper was all the way down to Natasha’s belly button by the time Wanda was hit with the ridiculously belated realization that the assassin wasn’t wearing a bra, which, Oh _God_ —but another muted whimper of pain from Natasha had her quickly snapping her focus back to the task at hand, feeling a pang of guilt for her wandering thoughts as her hands came up to push at the durable black fabric on Natasha’s shoulders, peeling it back slowly. 

 

A constellation of sickening bruises in various stages of healing were revealed to Wanda as she rid Natasha of her tactical suit, mottled colors of purple and blue and black blooming beneath her collarbone and all over her toned stomach, the colors so poignantly contrasting the woman’s pale skin.

 

Wanda was the tiniest bit thankful when she saw that Natasha wore plain black panties under the suit, at first; but, as she shakily bent down before the nearly naked assassin to tug at the waistband of her underwear and slide the fabric down bruise-littered thighs, that feeling was insanely short-lived, because this exact occurrence had definitely featured in many of Wanda’s more elaborate fantasies, but _God_ —not like this. _Definitely_ not like this. 

 

Finally, though, Natasha was completely naked—her green eyes still dull and blank, and, Wanda noticed, not a hint of self-consciousness showing across her pretty (though exhausted) features as she stood there fully nude. 

 

Meanwhile, Wanda forced herself to focus on taking her own clothing off—shedding the tight red tank top (she never wore a bra to bed) and hooking her thumbs in the waistband of her sleep shorts and panties to slide them both down her thighs in one fluid motion. Lastly, she pulled her hair up into a haphazard bun at the top of her head—having washed her hair just hours ago, she planned to keep it as dry as she could manage while she helped Natasha shower. 

 

She could feel a slight blush burning in her cheeks as she stood there stark naked across from a similarly bare Natasha Romanoff, but was quick to shift her focus—right then, she had to take care of Natasha; that was all that mattered. 

 

Stepping past the eerily motionless redhead, Wanda carefully opened the clear glass shower door, stepping inside to fiddle with the knobs until a steady spray of water—fucking _freezing_ water—hit her bare shoulder, making her flinch despite herself. She bit her lip as she adjusted the settings, nerves flowing through her shivering body at the thought of leaving Natasha standing alone just outside for a second longer. 

 

It felt like an eternity before the water was warm—not quite having reached what Wanda guessed to be the ideal temperature for a hot post-mission shower, but it’d have to do. Wanda stepped carefully back out onto the tile as steam began to rise in the spacious bathroom, offering her hand to a still-unmoving Natasha (who was fairly quick to take it, thank _God_ ) and pulling her gently inside. 

 

Using her body to shield Natasha from the hot spray of the shower, she did a quick assessment of the damage on Natasha’s trim figure: a deep but small gash over a nasty purple bruise on the front of her left thigh, a longer slash curving above her right hipbone, mottled black-and-blue bruising along both sides of her ribcage, along with more deep-purple hues below her collarbone and a wide strip of irritated red skin around her neck (something Wanda had failed to notice earlier) that would probably form another very impressive bruise by morning.

 

And that was just her front side. 

 

Sighing deeply, Wanda used one hand to lightly tug Natasha’s right shoulder towards her and the other to push the left one back, fighting to keep an even tone as she asked “Can you turn around for me?”

 

Natasha complied with a disoriented nod, and Wanda had to bite her lip _hard_ to stop a gasp from escaping her when she saw the newly revealed injuries strewn across Natasha’s pale skin. 

 

_Holy shit_. 

 

Deep green and violet bruises surrounded both delicate shoulder blades along with what looked to be a thin but fairly long burn along her upper spine—2nd degree, at least. 

 

That wasn’t the worst of it, though; that wasn’t the part that made Wanda want to burst into tears. No, the worst of it was the deep gash that ran from inches beneath her right shoulder blade to the dimples at the base of her spine, the skin surrounding and beneath the wound stained a sickening red with blood—Wanda had had an inkling as to how severe it was, given a) that Natasha had resorted to actually seeking someone out who wasn’t Clint or Phil to patch her up, and b) how visibly she’d reacted when Wanda’s arm had brushed up against it earlier… but _Shit_ , this was _bad_. 

 

Wanda didn’t want to think about how much a shower was going to hurt the other woman. 

 

“Okay,” she managed, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. “Can you turn back around for me?” 

 

She almost wanted to smile when Natasha obeyed with very little prompting, but the victory felt hollow, especially when Natasha was hurt this badly. The assassin was still making eye contact with her as she turned to face Wanda in the steaming shower, though, and she figured that that was as good a sign as any.

 

“I am going to step to the side now, let the water hit you… and it will hurt,” Wanda warned her with a pleading gaze. “But we need to do this so your cuts do not get worse.”

 

For a moment Natasha remained silent, no trace of recognition flashing across her features, those dull forest-green eyes seeming to stare right through Wanda’s—but eventually, she gave the barest hint of a nod, like she understood. 

 

Taking a deep breath, Wanda moved herself quickly to stand behind Natasha, placing her hands on the shorter woman’s shoulders to steady her—when the stream hit, Natasha’s entire body trembled (probably from the pain), though she didn’t resist or try to escape it—just stood preternaturally still (save for the occasional shiver) under Wanda’s grip as pink-tinted water swirled down the drain at their feet. 

 

“Okay,” Wanda leaned slightly forward to murmur into Natasha’s ear, unwittingly causing her nipples to press lightly into the other woman's shoulder blades. “We will use soap later, but right now, I want to get all of you rinsed. I am going to turn you around now—is that okay?”

 

Natasha nodded, albeit with noticeable hesitation—clearly she was already dreading how much this was going to hurt. Wanda, for her part, absolutely abhorred the idea of allowing the vigorous stream (Stark was always bragging about the amazing water pressure on all floors of Avengers Tower) to come into contact with the sickening gash on Natasha’s back, even as she knew it was unavoidable.

 

_Here goes nothing_ , Wanda thought. 

 

Moments later, and with a bit of gentle nudging from Wanda, Natasha was turning to face her, the assassin's entire form shuddering violently as the spray connected with her back, head bowed and jaw clenched—after about a second or two, Natasha surprised her by leaning forward to tentatively rest her forehead against Wanda’s shoulder as she trembled from the pain.

 

“It hurts,” the redhead choked out, her small voice barely audible above the roar of the shower. 

 

Wanda desperately fought the urge to cry even as the pinkish water swirling the drain of the shower became a florid crimson. “I know,” she responded instead with a hum. “I know, but you are doing so so good—just a little bit longer, I promise.” 

 

Natasha didn’t respond, just leaned further into Wanda’s embrace, breathing warm puffs of air onto the damp skin of Wanda’s breastbone as she shook beneath the shower’s onslaught. 

 

After counting to 120 (she wasn’t quite sure what constituted as “long enough” for disinfecting a cut like that), Wanda tapped at the skin of Natasha’s hips to get her attention, her breath catching in her throat as the shorter woman dutifully straightened and lifted her gaze back up to meet Wanda’s—she looked more alert than she had just minutes earlier, Wanda noted with relief, something like awareness glimmering in those green eyes. 

 

Getting Natasha’s head under the spray was a fairly simple task, though the amount of blood amidst the dirt in the cascading water below alerted Wanda to a fairly serious head trauma, the blood seeming to come from a cut at the base of Natasha’s skull that she’d missed in her previous sweeps.

 

Next was shampoo and conditioner, Wanda using her fingertips to scratch lightly at Natasha’s scalp, smiling to herself as the assassin leaned instinctively into the soothing ministrations. She kept a hand on Natasha’s upper body to steady her, especially as the soapy water ran from her washed hair down over the cuts on her front and back, occasionally causing the bruised woman to flinch in discomfort.

 

“Okay. Body wash and then we can be done,” she announced quietly, not bothering to grab her purple loofah—that would hurt like a bitch on Natasha’s abused skin, she knew—as she squirted a glob of cinnamon-scented soap into her hands. 

 

It was at that moment that it really hit Wanda what was happening, what spreading the sudsy shower gel onto Natasha’s entire body would entail, because entire body meant _entire_ body—those full round breasts topped with pert rosy-pink nipples, the generous swell of Natasha’s firm pale behind, those gloriously toned thighs that could literally be used to kill a man at a moment’s notice, and of course, the demure pink folds that peeked from behind neat red curls at the juncture of the assassin's thighs. 

 

_I’m too gay for this_ , Wanda thought. 

 

Then one side of Natasha’s full lips quirked upwards into something of a knowing smirk as she watched Wanda (the assassin seeming to grow more and more alert by the second), like she could see exactly what Wanda was thinking—which certainly didn’t help with Wanda’s inner turmoil, rapidly feeling her cheeks begin to heat despite herself. 

 

When Natasha quirked an eyebrow she jolted into action, averting her gaze with flaming cheeks and beginning to spread the gel as respectfully as she could over every inch of battered pale skin, consciously avoiding the woman’s mouth-watering—ahem, _sufficient_ , she’d meant to say—breasts and only rubbing the soap up to her mid-thighs, because she was about 99.9% certain her brain would explode from sheer gayness if she’d tried spreading it any further.

 

She let out a sigh of relief when she was finished, still forcing her gaze to fix studiously on the sudsy water swirling the drain as she did her best to ignore the involuntary shudders running through her body because _Oh my God Oh my God Oh my G_ —

 

“I think you missed a couple spots,” came Natasha’s low and husky tone, causing Wanda to snap her head up in alarm as the redhead pouted at her with those sinful red lips, something playful twinkling in her green-eyed gaze. 

 

“I-I—Uh,” Wanda stammered, and _Yes, this is how it ends. I will die. Right now. From sexual frustration. And it’s all Natasha’s fault_.

 

Luckily, Natasha just chuckled, thankfully saving Wanda from having to come up with a coherent response to… _that_. “I’m messing with you,” she said reassuringly, an easy smirk on her features as she allowed the shower spray to rinse the rest of the soap off her freaking _perfect_ body. 

 

Wanda was still rather at a loss for words when Natasha reached to turn the shower off, completely unable to stop a sort of familiar warmth from pooling in her lower belly as her brain played Natasha’s words on a constant loop.

 

_“I think you missed a couple spots”… “you missed” … “missed a couple spots”… “I think—“_

 

“Do you know how to stitch up wounds?” Natasha’s voice snapped her back to reality as the redhead gracefully opened the shower door, padding out onto the tile and grabbing Wanda’s fluffy white towel to wrap around her glistening wet skin—it was at this moment and time that Wanda realized she hadn’t brought a towel for herself, not having foreseen that she would be showering. With Natasha. At the same time.

 

_God, I am dumb_ , she scolded herself as she carefully stepped onto the cool tile, shutting the shower door behind her. 

 

It hit her then that Natasha was looking at her expectantly, probably waiting for an answer to her question. _Shit_. “Um—Yes. Yes, I do.” 

 

“Good. Can I use your brush?” 

 

Wanda managed a nod, watching dumbly as Natasha yanked her hairbrush quickly through wet red locks, patting at her scalp with the towel (again _completely_ unashamed by her stark nudity) before turning back to Wanda with a grin. 

 

“Do you have first aid stuff?” she asked, tossing the towel to Wanda, who tried _very hard_ to not think about how it had been against Natasha’s milky white skin just seconds earlier as she used it to dry herself. 

 

“I believe all the rooms have first aid kits, yes?” 

 

“Oh, yeah,” Natasha let out an amused huff of breath, her almost indifferent gaze focused downwards as she poked an experimental finger at the horrific bruising beneath her collarbone. “Forgot. Cap’s orders.” 

 

Wanda just hummed in agreement, hastily pulling her sleep shorts and tank top back over damp skin with heated cheeks. 

 

“I should probably lie down while you stitch me up,” Natasha mused, turning her body this way and that to observe the cuts in the mirror as Wanda tried desperately not to stare. “But I don’t want to ruin your sheets,” the redhead smirked at the innuendo, causing Wanda to blush even deeper, “so I’ll just lay on the floor.” With that decision apparently having been made, she then turned swiftly on her heel to exit the bathroom (still as naked as the day she was born), leaving a rather gobsmacked and wide-eyed Wanda in her wake. 

 

Admittedly, it took the young witch a few long seconds to understand what had just happened, but quickly enough she was shaking herself out of her daze and retrieving the standard first-aid kit from the cabinets beneath the sink, letting out a slow breath as she followed Natasha out and into the bedroom—that woman was going to be the death of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one-shot? two-shot? threE-shot? who knows


	2. "talk to me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha and Wanda "talk." It's gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a couple people requested that I turn this into a two-shot, and here's the result! I'll probably come back to edit it later, but I would love to know what you guys think:)

By all accounts, Wanda thought she was prepared.

 

After all, she’d just endured showering with a very naked and completely unashamed Black Widow, which Wanda presumed to be somewhat akin to experiencing the seventh circle of the most exquisite kind of hell on this earth.

 

If she survived that, she could survive anything, right? 

 

Wrong. 

 

Wanda almost dropped the first-aid kid when she walked into her room—no, scratch that, she _did_ drop the first-aid kit when she walked into the room, because there was Natasha, laid gloriously naked on her side in Wanda’s dimly lit bedroom with that infuriating smirk fixed onto her features, one pale arm propping up her head of trademark red curls, the pose looking every bit like that one meme Tony had shown her earlier, the one that’d been something about ‘painting me like one of your French girls’—but this most certainly was not a laughing matter, because suddenly each nerve ending in her body was alight with white-hot arousal and her mouth felt like sandpaper as every single drop of moisture in Wanda’s body promptly decided it had somewhere better to be even as she _knew_ it was the farthest thing from appropriate to be thinking about sex while Natasha was there and injured and asking for help and—

 

Holy _shit_. 

 

And then the guilt hit even as Wanda stood there feeling uncomfortably aroused at the glorious sight on the floor of her bedroom (the first-aid kid _entirely_ forgotten) because she couldn’t stop staring and wanting and _Dammit_ , that made her no better than every sleazy politician on Natasha’s literally countless missions that would reduce her into a sex object even as Natasha was forced to flirt and smile and laugh at their imbecilic jokes for the sake of the op. 

 

_Fuck_. 

 

Wanda didn’t want that Natasha—the one who faked smiles and moans and allowed people to bed her regardless of what she herself might want simply because her handlers demanded it. 

 

No, Wanda wanted the real Natasha… or, as close as she could get, anyhow. 

 

She never expected Natasha to trust her fully—she doubted Natasha had ever trusted anyone to an extent that went beyond necessity since her time in the Red Room, and from what little Wanda had seen before Ultron, she definitely understood why. 

 

So no, she wasn’t asking for the Natasha that used to be—the fresh-faced and idealistic young ballerina they called Natalia who fell from Madame B.’s grip having been broken in every which way and forced to become the most deadly kind of monster (—at least, that’s how Natasha sees it. Wanda sees something vastly different).

 

She didn’t want to be another mark, someone Natasha thought she had to please just because Wanda had sunk low enough to unwittingly objectify her at every turn. 

 

Truly, the mere idea of being a _mark_ in Natasha’s eyes was making her sick; the nausea only worsened when Natasha, still draped sacrilegiously across the floor, formed a pout with full red lips and directed it towards a still helplessly immobilized Wanda, then began crooking a pale finger in a downright erotic ‘Come hither’ motion, causing tidal waves of arousal to war violently within her against the absolutely sickening—

 

“Wanda?” Natasha’s voice shook her abruptly out of her thoughts, the redhead's brow furrowed, lips parted slightly as she gazed curiously back at a near distraught Wanda. 

 

Wanda swallowed thickly, her head beginning to spin. “Yes?” Her tone sounded gravelly and unfamiliar to her ears. 

 

“Talk to me,” Natasha requested simply, still spread nonchalantly across the floor and _Why me, Lord? Why?_ “You’re upset.”

 

“I am not upset.”

 

Natasha quirked a brow but didn’t comment, allowing her features to again grow serious as she eyed the young witch. “Talk to me?”

 

The redhead had phrased it as a question this time, the words so soft and genuine coming off her tongue, and _Damn_ her for that because Wanda’s resolve was crumbling even as she fought desperately against it—she didn’t deserve Natasha’s sincerity, much less the trust she’d placed in Wanda’s hands the second she’d shown up seeking help at Wanda’s doorstep, and God, it hurt even worse that Natasha hadn’t just strangled her to death in her infamous thigh-choke hold for daring to be so depraved. 

 

(Heaven knows she was more than deserving of it.) 

 

_Fuck_. 

 

_She is still watching me. She is still waiting for a response. Fuck! What do I say? I cannot simply tell her_ —

 

“I am sorry!” Wanda blurted out, then immediately cursed herself for having so little self-restraint even as both of Natasha’s brows rose slightly in response, something like genuine confusion showing on her perfectly angular features.

 

Wanda tried desperately not to stare as Natasha shifted herself to stand, then moved to step closer to the taller girl in all of her naked glory, head tilted. “For what?” 

 

Wanda stared for a long moment, mouth slightly agape as her brain scrambled to come up with a coherent response—which definitely wasn’t working, because she was coming up shamefully empty every single time.

 

_Fuck it_. 

 

“For all of it!” she exclaimed, wringing her hands nervously as all of her thoughts unceremoniously escaped her in a chaotic rush. “For—Fuck—For staring, because I _know_ that it is bad and I know I am me and you are _you_ and you are probably used to people w-watching you and _wanting_ you, but it is not fair, I—I—I know it is not fair because I get uncomfortable when people do that to me, looking at me like they are thinking about what’s beneath my clothes and taking me to bed—"

 

“Wanda,” Natasha spoke softly, effectively cutting her off mid-rant. “I need you to slow down.” 

 

Wanda fought to keep her eyes fixed on Natasha’s thoughtful expression rather than straying to… other parts of her, her thoughts still racing as she tried to find the words to make the other woman understand, make her see just how fucking _sorry_ Wanda was. For everything. 

 

“I am sorry. I am sorry,” she babbled. "God I just—It’s just—You came to me looking for _help_ and I want you to trust me, you know?” She could feel herself devolving into another graceless ramble, but she felt as if she had to say it—she just _had_ to. "I want to know everything about you, and not just the things you will reveal that are considered safe because I am so intensely captivated by you, and I—See, I am doing it again! You came here and you’ are hurt and probably exhausted and I am staring at you and objectifying you like one of your marks on a mission but I just can _not_ stop and I know that is no excuse—“

 

Suddenly she found herself swiftly interrupted by—

 

Oh my God.

 

Oh my _God_. 

 

Natasha’s soft full lips were suddenly pressed firmly—intoxicatingly—against her own even as Wanda stood stock-still in utter disbelief, not quite understanding for the life of her what was happening except that somehow Natasha Romanoff’s cinnamon-scented lips were on hers, the simple touch so soft and warm and fucking _exhilarating_ , better than she’d ever dared to imagine—and then all too soon they were gone, leaving Wanda completely gobsmacked as her lips tingled where Natasha’s had been and she hesitantly allowed her eyes to drift back open (though she couldn’t quite remember ever having shut them in the first place).

 

Natasha’s face was centimeters from her own, something glinting in emerald-green eyes that Wanda couldn’t quite define, her features entirely devoid of that trademark Black Widow confidence as she gazed at Wanda, seeming to penetrate her to her very core as the young witch shivered involuntarily.

 

“You’re not a mark,” Natasha whispered finally, her voice low and husky and dripping with a kind of gentle conviction that made Wanda ache as the other woman nudged at Wanda’s pert nose with her own. “I like it when you look at me.”

 

Wanda’s eyes widened. _Speak, you imbecile!_ her brain screamed. “You—I—What?” 

 

Natasha just chuckled, and _Yep, my panties are now ruined_ , Wanda thought as she clenched her bare thighs together in some desperate attempt to stave off the uncontrollable arousal gathering between her legs.

 

“I _want_ you to look,” Natasha breathed, that absolutely damning smirk on her features that sent another flood of warmth straight to the juncture of Wanda’s thighs. “I’ve been dropping hints for ages.”

 

_Holy_ —

 

What?

 

_What?_

 

“Wh—You—Really?” Wanda managed. 

 

Natasha’s smirk widened into a genuine grin— _God, she’s beautiful_ , Wanda thought dazedly. 

 

“Yes, really.” 

 

Wanda was sure this was a dream. This _had_ to be a dream. 

 

“Can I—Can I kiss you again?” she asked before she could think to stop herself, cheeks flaming as she let her eyes dart down to the cupid’s bow of Natasha’s heavenly lips. 

 

Natasha just let out an amused huff before bringing both hands up to stroke at Wanda’s jaw, which, Holy _shit_ —and then suddenly Natasha was leaning in and Wanda’s eyes were fluttering shut and they were kissing and it was absolutely _exquisite_ , lips moving gently against each other’s as Wanda rested tentative hands on the older woman’s bare hips, letting out a gentle moan into their kiss and Oh my God, they were _kissing_. 

 

Wanda’s not sure what possessed her to begin tracing the seam of Natasha’s lips with her tongue, but she certainly didn’t care enough to regret it, because a split second later Natasha was eagerly parting her lips to grant Wanda entrance and letting a soft contented sigh slip from between kiss-swollen lips—and then the kiss became deeper, more fervent, absolutely _filthy_ in the best possible way as Wanda positively ached for more, for Natasha’s deft touch down where she needed it most. 

 

Vaguely, she felt Natasha begin to tug her towards the bed, their tongues still ardently exploring, Wanda’s clothed torso pressed tightly against Natasha’s naked chest, barely allowing for a moment to breathe as Wanda nipped at the redhead's lower lip and Natasha rubbed tantalizing circles into the bare skin of her hipbone beneath her tank top—God, Wanda felt as if she were being _devoured_ but she damn well wouldn’t mind being wholly consumed by Natasha, with that body pressed against Wanda's and another moan escaping those flawless lips and—

 

Before Wanda could blink she was suddenly falling backwards, her back hitting the grey bedsheets with a soft yelp, bare legs still dangling off the edge of the bed as Natasha leaned over her with a smirk, sinking her elbows into the mattress on either side of Wanda’s head.

 

“I’ve wanted to do this for a _very_ long time,” the assassin husked, more to herself than to Wanda, then moved to trail light kisses down Wanda’s exposed neck as the brunette arched willingly into the touch, positively throbbing with need as she again tried clenching her thighs together to relieve herself, blushing deeply when she felt Natasha chuckle above her.

 

“Patience, little witch,” Natasha chided, her words slightly muffled as she began nipping at the skin of Wanda’s collarbone, the younger woman moaning helplessly under the sensual assault as her hips bucked uncontrollably against Natasha’s.

 

It felt like _years_ before Natasha’s gentle hands were finally guiding her willing thighs apart, nimble fingers sliding teasingly along the waistband of Wanda’s shorts, making Wanda want to sob with unbridled need as everything within her yearned for Natasha’s mouth, her fingers, _anything_. 

 

Now, Wanda didn’t believe in God, but she certainly understood the appeal when Natasha finally, _finally_ tugged her sleep shorts and panties down her legs in one effortless motion, laying soft kisses at the skin of Wanda’s stomach as she tilted her hips to help; what’s more, she was just about convinced that this was as close as she’d ever get to something holy as Natasha—beautiful, perfect, deadly, Black-Widow-badass-Natasha—knelt on Wanda’s bedroom floor as she kissed teasingly at the skin of Wanda’s inner thighs, gentle hands gripping Wanda’s hips, growing maddeningly closer and closer to Wanda’s glistening center that positively craved even the slightest hint of Natasha’s attentions. 

 

“Please, Natasha,” she gasped, slamming her eyes shut as the assassin blew a stream of cool air across her aching folds, sending a jolt of arousal straight to Wanda’s clit. “Natasha, please, I need—“

 

She cut herself off with an undignified squeak, because suddenly Natasha’s slick tongue was _on_ her, dragging with perfect pressure through her folds and lingering to circle her obscenely sensitive clit as Wanda moaned loudly, bucking her hips in vain against Natasha’s soft but unyielding grip.

 

It felt like heaven and God, she knew she wasn’t going to last long, especially not after being so thoroughly worked up—because Natasha’s tongue was doing absolutely unspeakable things to her already pitifully-low self control as she alternated between long slow licks through slippery wet folds and tight precise circles around Wanda’s hypersensitive clit that forced Wanda to desperately bite back screams of pleasure as she fisted the sheets with shaking hands. 

 

Within seconds, she could feel her climax building like a tidal wave within her even despite her futile attempts to stave it off, all culminating just moments later when Natasha sucked _hard_ on her clit and hummed gently into her folds and _Fuck_ , that did it—her orgasm hit with an absolutely devastating force, her vision turning black around the edges as Natasha’s tongue kept circling and stroking and she swore she was flying, swore she’d never been so high in her entire goddamned _life_ on pleasure and bliss and _Natasha_.

 

_Natasha_.

 

“Holy shit,” she managed to gasp after she’d finally floated back down to earth, her accent much thicker than normal as Natasha sat still-kneeling on the ground before her, pressing tender kisses to every inch of Wanda’s shaking thighs and letting out the occasional hum of contentment against soft skin. 

 

Then, after placing a final kiss on Wanda’s over-sensitive clit and chuckling when the girl’s hips jerked reflexively in response, she stood, again moving to lean herself over an utterly blissed-out Wanda sprawled across the sheets. 

 

“You taste amazing,” she spoke against Wanda’s slightly parted lips before capturing them in a deep kiss, a low moan escaping the young witch as she tasted herself on Natasha’s tongue, because _Fuck_.

 

After a short while, their kisses began to taper off, lips connecting one last time before Natasha was reluctantly pulling away, though she kept her face mere centimeters from Wanda’s, green eyes gazing warmly into blue as their breaths mingled.

 

“Do not think that this gets you out of getting properly stitched up,” Wanda mumbled eventually, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion.

 

Natasha just chuckled good-naturedly, her warm breath ghosting across Wanda’s tingling lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it."

**Author's Note:**

> Again, would love feedback on this!


End file.
